Blood Hina (17 page)

The Buckwheat Beauty said seven months as if it were seven decades. You triple or quadruple that, Mas thought,
and then I’ll think it’s a big deal
.

Dee took a couple of short breaths as she listened to Mas explain about the repetitive message on the postcards Sonya had received. “Sounds like they were sent from some kind of wacko. Plus Auntie Sonya says the postcards stopped last year, right? What would that have to do with the dolls?”

After going back and forth with Mas like in a ping-pong match, Dee finally conceded. “If you insist on going, then I’ll go with you. But you’ll have to drive. I’m not going to waste any gas to go to Hanley.”

Some people looked for signs to know where they were going, but Mas relied on landmarks. For Dr. Svelick’s, it was the community garden on the corner; for his Wednesday customer, it was the San Gabriel Mission. For Imperial
Valley, the landmarks didn’t appear every couple of miles, but every seventy-five. They were notable ones—larger-than-life markers you could see even in the deadness of early dawn. The sloping backs of the dinosaur statues, as big as bank buildings, along the 10 at Cabazon, not far from the shopping outlets. The crop of wind turbines, their blades as ominous as kamikaze plane propellers, outside of Palm Springs. And before Mas knew it, the Ford was firmly in the grip of the desert—not the shiny version with pristine pools populated by skin-damaged
hakujin
old women in leopard-patterned swimsuits, but the true desert, the brown barrenness that sucked moisture from a man’s lips and cheeks and insides. It was certainly a sign that this place was not for human habitation. Only the ugliest and thorniest plants and creatures seemed naturally up to the task.

Yet people still persevered. In places like Cathedral City, a retirement town where most of the front yards were multicolored crushed bits of granite. Or Indio, marked by palm trees that were diapered below their feathered fronds to catch ripened dates.

South of those signs of life came the Salton Sea, invisible from Highway 86. It was just as well, because Mas remembered it as being a leaky sink filled with dirty dishwater. The outline of the television satellite dishes and shoebox-shaped trailers dotting the landscape made Mas feel especially lonely. The Buckwheat Beauty had fallen asleep by now (so much for her offer to drive once they reached Palm Springs), so Mas shivered in the Ford alone.

Once they passed the southern tip of Salton Sea, Mas shook off the bleakness, and his memory kicked in. He
remembered the rows of cantaloupes and honeydew melons swollen in the fields after World War Two. He dealt more with tomatoes and did his share of picking on a Nisei farm on the north side, in a town called Niland. Every time they dug down, they would hit rock, quite literally. When hoes or shovels couldn’t do it, the farmers would have to bring out the big guns—tractors with forklift teeth—to remove the giant stones. Soon, a stacked pile of rocks would be on the edge of the fields, ready for the taking.

By the time they were on the outskirts of Brawley, the sun was starting to make an appearance. Dee stirred, squinted, and rubbed her eyes with the tops of her fists like a child.

“I need coffee,” she said, and Mas agreed. He stopped at a gas station mini-mart.

“Where the hell are we?” Dee asked. They sat outside, at a plastic table covered in graffiti in some unrecognizable language. All Mas could make out was the number 13 splattered in permanent ink.

The coffee in their Styrofoam cups looked bad and tasted worse. Mas was just thankful for anything to help recharge his batteries. As always, he drank his coffee black, while Dee opened two packages of sugar and a package of fake powdered cream in a triple tear and dumped it on the surface of the brackish-looking liquid. One stir with her index finger and then she winced after taking a sip.

“Weezu a coupla miles north of Brawley,” Mas said.

The Buckwheat Beauty’s face fell, and Mas figured it must still be fatigue. “Need to get something.”

Mas held onto his cup with both hands and looked out at the skyline. In spite of the hollow outline of the sun, grayness
prevailed. Low-lying shrubs pinched at any moisture they could find in the flat brown ground. It was still fairly cool, but Mas could feel an oppressive heat gathering above their heads.

Dee came out with two red pens with artificial nylon roses sticking out from one end.

“I gotsu pens,” Mas said, referring to his collection in the old L.A. Clippers mug glued to his dashboard. But the girl ignored him.

They both tossed their half-drunk coffee in the wire trash can by the mini-mart door and got back into the Ford. They’d traveled only a mile when the Buckwheat Beauty started waving her hands.

“Stop!” she cried, and Mas pumped down on the brakes. The Ford jackknifed slightly as he eased it to the side of the highway.

Dee jumped out of the truck before Mas could ask why. She ran across the two-lane highway and laid the flower pens on the road like a religious offering. She seemed to be mouthing some sort of prayer. Mas realized that it was here where her father and Jorg had died. For her sake and maybe her father’s, he lowered his eyes as well. As she ran back toward the car, he noticed the wind carrying the rose pens out to the highway. They kept rolling and rolling until a RV going north ran over them, squashing them with its giant wheels and releasing the fabric petals, which flapped for a moment like the severed wings of a butterfly before being buried in dust.

When they reached Hanley, the Buckwheat Beauty guided Mas to the downtown business district, where she instructed him to park in front of a set of buildings hidden behind a Spanish-style facade.

She pointed to the second-floor window where Blanco’s office was supposed to be located. “He’s not any kind of real inspector now, you know. Used to work for the Department of Agriculture and then started his own business inspecting organics. I don’t know why he’s still hung up on my dad’s accident. I guess he thinks it ended his law enforcement career.”

Mas took a couple of gulps of air. He didn’t relish facing Blanco on his own, but it was clear that the Buckwheat Beauty’s presence would lead to more harm than good.

He pulled on the tarnished metal handle of the glass door. Inside, he noted the building directory—little plastic white letters pushed onto a black board. C. BLANCO, INSPECTOR, Room 206. He made his way up the dusty stairs and finally identified the right room. The numbers, each digit a sticker, were curled up from age and hard to read.

Mas rapped on the door with his knuckles.

“Come in.”

Sitting at an old oak desk was a chubby middle-aged man with a bald head and heavy sideburns shaped like two states of California. He immediately smiled when he saw Mas.

“Hashimoto? Onion man, right?”

Mas took off his Dodger cap and shook his head. “Mas. Mas Arai.”

Blanco frowned and flipped through his datebook. “I don’t have any Arais down. When did you call?”

“Didn’t callsu. I’zu here wiz Dee Hayakawa.”

Blanco froze for a moment as if it took him a few seconds to register the name. His face fell and he quickly glanced in back of Mas.

“Sheezu down there.” Mas gestured to the window.

Blanco rose, pulled aside his venetian blinds, and looked out into the street. The Buckwheat Beauty must have been in plain view, because the former detective sunk back into his swivel chair and practically snarled. “How are you connected with her?”

It was hard to explain their relationship, especially in light of Haruo and Spoon’s broken engagement. “Family friend,” Mas finally said. “Friend of an actual friend.”

“How well do you know your friend of an actual friend?” The chair’s single giant spring squeaked from below.

Mah-mah
. So-so, Mas thought. But he knew that he had to play a closer relationship or Blanco might lose interest. “I’zu lookin’ for dat actual friend.”

“Well, your friend may be in a better place without the likes of her. She’s all trouble.”

Mas had expected Blanco to rant and rave a little, but nothing like this.

“Let me tell you a little something about that girl. She didn’t tell you anything about her boyfriend, Estacio, did she? The local boy returns to Hanley to deal drugs?”

Mas shoved his hands in his jeans pockets.

“I didn’t think so. He and Dee lived together in L.A. She got busted on drug charges, but for some reason, he went scot-free. By the mid-eighties Estacio was working solo in the valley. He was ruining the streets here. He got teenagers
to make drug runs for him. Families were destroyed.

“Then Dee’s father comes to Hanley to make flower deliveries. In the same town where his daughter’s ex-boyfriend is running a drug empire. Is this a coincidence? Give me a break. I don’t know if Estacio was threatening Dee’s father or if the father wanted part of the action. But both Ike and Jorg were making cocaine runs, no doubt about it.”

Blanco swallowed and brushed down one of his sideburns. “I know you don’t believe me. I barely believed it myself. But these past twenty years, I’ve been piecing it all together.” He rose to a tall gray filing cabinet in the corner and opened the second of five drawers. “Look at all of this—” The drawer sagged from the weight of rows of manila folders and white paper. “This is all about Estacio. All the interviews I’ve been doing since the accident in 1986. Photographs of the crime scene. Court documents. Police reports. You know that his biological father is a well-respected politician back in Nicaragua?” He pulled out a couple of black-and-white head shots, the kind movie and sports stars have taken to autograph for their fans. One was of an older man with wavy gray hair in a three-piece suit, the other was a younger version, with the same thin face and piercing eyes. Estacio’s hair was cropped short, and instead of a suit and tie, he wore a black shirt and jacket.

“Promo shot for a new casino in Las Vegas. Estacio was one of the VPs—that is until he got into some trouble.”

Mas was surprised that neither the Buckwheat Beauty nor Spoon had made any mention of this man. “You been talkin’ to Spoon?”

“Dee’s mother? She won’t take my calls. You know that
her lawyers filed a harassment suit against me? I’m supposed to stay at least a hundred yards away from her and her daughter. I doubt the daughter even knows what’s going on. She’s had more relapses than Lindsay Lohan.”

Mas didn’t know who this Lindsay was but gathered that the Buckwheat Beauty had been going through drug rehab like a revolving door.

“Estacio was my main target, anyway. The whole police department stayed away from him—no doubt they all were on the take. And then someone plants cocaine in my car. The DA can’t prove that it’s mine, but the damage is done. My career’s over. My marriage’s over. My life’s over. They think I’m going to quit? That’s not what Chuck Blanco is made of.”

“Where’su dis Estacio now?”

“Interestingly enough, he wasn’t charged with a thing here in Hanley. The police couldn’t pin anything on him. Nobody would talk. Spent some time with his father in Nicaragua. But comes back to Las Vegas and invested in some casinos. He was finally picked up in Arizona. It wasn’t a drug violation—assault in a nightclub. Sentenced to a couple of years. He just got out a couple of weeks ago on good behavior.”

Mas’s ears perked up.

“Yeah, it wouldn’t surprise me if Estacio had contacted Dee. Maybe he’s the one who’s been after those dolls.”

Again, the dolls. Blanco seemed to easily read Mas’s face, because he commented, “Yeah, Mrs. de Groot called me about the dolls. I told her I’d get them, but it was too late. That outfit in San Diego had already sold them.”